I was reading something the other day that has sort of stuck in my head. The author commented that the only reason she made her bed every day was because it "was an island of calm in the chaos of her life."
I do make my bed every day. It does bother me if I don't. It bothers me enough that I will stop and make it when I see it unmade -- even if I didn't intend to make it.
Because of that casual comment, I started thinking about my bed-making habits. I'm not sure when I really became compulsive about it. When I was a teenager, our bedrooms were upstairs in the old farmhouse. I cannot remember much about ever making my bed and I don't remember Mom ever coming upstairs to fuss about it. (I do remember how cold it was up there in the winter time. A glass of water taken upstairs would be ice in the morning. And I can remember the weight of the heavy layers of blankets we covered up with.)
Sometime after we were married and had moved into the house that had been Forry's parents, we bought our first water bed. I can recall how easy it was to make that bed -- all you had to do was toss the duvet up and you were done. (We did wonder if the floor was sturdy enough to support the weight of all that water in a king size bed...) Strangely enough, I cannot remember nagging at our kids about making their beds either (though I'll bet they might!). It probably helped that their bedrooms were downstairs where I didn't see them every day.
I suppose I was thinking about bed making today because I changed the sheets on our bed. I do know that there is nothing nicer then crawling into a bed with freshly washed sheets that smell so good and feel so smooth. Pure sensual delight!
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